


Heaven's Fury

by Ownworldresident



Series: Tyril x MC Collection [1]
Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ownworldresident/pseuds/Ownworldresident
Summary: After facing off with the Dreadlord himself, you, elf!MC are badly injured. Pulled off the battlefield from your companions, you must rely on the ancient elf to recover.A low-intensity hurt/comfort scene with Tyril Starfury himself.
Relationships: Tyril Starfury/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow), Tyril Starfury/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Tyril x MC Collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705141
Kudos: 16





	Heaven's Fury

Rain lashes at your backs as you duck inside the partly collapsed structure. With barely enough roof left to shelter beneath, you press against the wall, hearts pounding, and ears pricked as you listen for pursuers. Silent as you can, trying to quell your heavy breath, your focuses are on the sounds beyond the rain, beyond the fury of the battlefield, and beyond the yells of separated companions.

“Are they safe?” you breathe, knowing only your companion could hear you over the howling wind and angry cries past your meagre hiding place. It takes a long time for Tyril to answer.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and you tighten your fists as you finally turn to him. As he lifts his head to peer through the cracked window, magic streaks through the sky, and lights his face long enough for you to make out the dark hair sticking to his face, the cut across his cheek, and the pure rage in his eyes.

You reach for his hand in the dark, squeezing it gently, and when he turns his face to you his eyes soften, pain welling behind them, before he slips beneath the sill into darkness again.

“Freda…” he squeezes your hand, stronger than you had managed, and as your breath steadies you remember why he pulled you out of the way and gasp. Tyril’s hand tenses, and you feel, rather than see, him shuffle closer, shivering at the sensation of his warm breath near your shoulder.

“We should…” you suck in a breath, cutting yourself off, and close your eyes. White hot pain streaks along your thigh and you lean your head back against the shaking wall. The pain isn’t the problem, though. Your eyes fly open as you hear another cry from outside. Tyril lifts his head again, but there isn’t rage there, but panic, and the doubt in the warrior elf sends your heart pounding again. You are sure you recognise the cry. “We need to help them. Need to…”

“No.” Tyril holds you firmly as you try to stand. “The tide has turned, Freda, your foolishness saw to that.” He ends the sentence in a growl that drains the fight from you and colours your cheeks. For once grateful that he can’t see you, the relief is gone a second later when he snaps his fingers, and the tiniest flame appears on his palm. He isn’t looking at your face, but at the gash on your leg.

“It wasn’t foolishness,” you object under your breath, but there is no fight in your voice, and you know he’s right.

Tyril doesn’t answer you, his focus intent on your injury. The pulsing ache that echoes up your leg curdles your stomach, and you press a fist against your mouth, unable to look away from the torn, blood soaked pants that he pries apart to see the wound. Scowling, your companion casts a wary glance your way and you bite your lip as your eyes meet. The tiny flame illuminates every curve on the elf’s face and reflects in pale, glossy eyes, his frustration melting as they search yours. You wince, and for the briefest moment he reaches for your hand again, squeezing your fingers. The warmth of his touch swells in your chest and sends tingles through your arm even after he releases you.

“Eyes on me, Freda.” The corner of his mouth twitches into something you think is intended as a reassuring smile, but it fades as he reaches into your pack for the medical supplies.

You try do what he asks, watching the focus in his furrowed brow as he tends to your injury. His face is lit in profile, shadowing his eyes, but the tension in his jaw fills the air. Your wound, still pulsing, feels at once hot and cold as Tyril presses a compress against it. You chance a look down and see a faint glow beneath his hands where he presses against your leg. He mutters something even you can’t catch, then the glow fades, and he starts to peel off the treated fabric.

“Don’t look away from me.” You look up in time for a flash of determination before Tyril focuses back on his work. Pressing his knee against a new wad of gauze to free his hands, he pulls out a dagger to cut a length of bandage and begins to wrap it around your thigh. You focus on the small details of his face to distract yourself: the way his hair falls either side of his tall ear; the ridges on his temple as he concentrates; the slender curve of his jaw, where rain soaked hair sticks to it; the tight line of his lips, and the violet tinge in his cheeks.

“What you did back there was incredibly reckless, and foolish, risking your life,” he says, surprising you, “you should have waited.” Again he doesn’t look up, removing his leg and hooking a hand under your knee to lift it gently. A sudden image of the looming Dreadlord returns, and you flinch, looking away into the darkness.

“You would have done the same for me,” you reply, wincing. Tyril pauses, bandage in one hand and your leg in the other. For a moment the broken room is silent. The noise from outside and occasional flashes of magic don’t pierce the space, and you become aware of the quickening of your heart.

“That…” he clears his throat, “that isn’t the point. I would have…”

He finishes and ties the bandage, and you can’t hold in the sigh of relief. The pressure of the bandage stems the pulsing aches and all that is left is a centred pain that you can manage. You wait for him to continue, but though his lips are slightly parted, he doesn’t speak.

“You would have..?” you prompt. Tyril clutches the remaining bandage so tight his knuckles whiten. Painfully, he meets your gaze.

“I would not have been able to continue I…” he swallows, “I care about you. More than I have ever cared about anyone. I want you to know that.”

You stare at him, every other feeling numbing but the dryness in your throat. You answer in a quiet rasp, “why didn’t you say anything before… before we went…”

Tyril reaches for your hand as his eyes water, and you try to imagine what he could be thinking as he blinks them back. “If I had told you this before you fought the Dreadlord, I would be admitting my own weakness. If you had… died… It would have been impossible to continue. And I didn’t want to distract you. Either one of us could have died tonight.” He winces and turns away, giving you a much needed moment to process what he just said. As Tyril busies himself replacing the medical supplies, you reach out and turn his chin to face you, running a thumb over the cut on his cheek.

“But we didn’t die,” you say firmly. “We’re here. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Tyril’s flame brightens beside you, prompting your smile as it warms his face. Feeling stronger, you shuffle forward, tracing the curve of his jaw, and gently moving your thumb over his lips. Tyril leans into the touch, lifting your hand to press his lips to the soft skin of your palm.

“By the gods, I will protect you,” he says to your hand, eyes closing as he inhales deeply. Finally, a tiny smile settles on his lips.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask, searching his eyes for an answer when he looks to you again. The light of his flame burns brighter, sparking something deep and soothing in his gaze. Outside, flashes of magic and shouts and collisions compete with the rain and the wind, but in here, the room is dry, the flame is warm, and Tyril Starfury kneels inches from your face.

“I would like nothing more.” Tyril’s voice drops as he leans toward you, breath warm on your skin, teasing long fingers through your hair as your eyelids slide shut.


End file.
